


What Dreams May Come

by IncurableNecromantic



Series: Tumblr prompts [2]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Anthropomorphic Personifications, Gen, Pitch fears Sandy, Sandy's kind of a complete shit, Turf wars, actually it's frightening to think that Morpheus might be the most competent and relaxed person here, and Pitch talks too much, and that's cute, par for the course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Anonymous asked: Pitch and Sandy trying to make head or tail of Morpheus.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Dreams May Come

"Well," Pitch observed, sliding out of the shadows of a child’s room, "this is awkward."

Sandy produced his whip and Pitch’s heart stammered, terrified.  He backed several steps away and pointed frantically at the figure of the slumbering child in the bed between them, and Sandy lowered his arm with a glower.

There was a third, impassive, unmoving, at the foot of the child’s bed.

One eye on Sandy, Pitch carefully examined the tall, pale figure, taking in the sunken eyes and the wild hair.  Dear God, it was like looking at a living, unflattering picture from his high school senior year.  If he were a few shade less dark and had been dunked in several gallons of Aquanet, they’d be mirror images of each other.

He paused and gave Sandy a significant look, the expression of ingratiating disbelief falling off his face when he saw the pudgy, golden Sandman holding up his fingers in a frame around the two of them, squinting through the gap with a mocking grin.

"Hilarious," he mumbled.

Sandy obviously agreed, but the immobile being standing to the side of the child’s bed seemed not to even notice.

"And who might you be?" Pitch asked.  They would never leave if someone didn’t get the ball rolling.

 _I am Dream of the Endless_ , the figure replied, or did something that sounded like a reply, at least.   _Morpheus, men have called me_. 

"Oh," Pitch intoned, glancing at Sandy, who at least made a certain amount of sense and considerably fewer pretentious pronouncements.

Not, Pitch reflected, that he was probably one to talk.

_This child is of interest to me._

"Indeed," Pitch added, feeling as if this conversation was lacking a certain vibrant vivacity but sure that neither of his interlocutors would be doing anything to make things scintillating.  "Well, I hope you shall be quite interested to know that I’m going to give the child a nightmare—" Sandy picked up his arm again.  "—a well-deserved and beneficial nightmare that will contribute to the healthy development of a young adult!" Pitch snapped.  "Fear having a proper utility, thank you, Sandman, just as much as dreams."

Sandy glowered at him and swung the whip low, sliding it under the bed to flick around Pitch’s ankle.  Sandy tugged and Pitch barely managed to steady himself on the nearby bookshelf. 

"Really," he hissed.  "This is professional!"

Men-Called-Him-Morpheus had appeared closer to the sleeping head of the child and examined the young creature with deep, gleaming eyes.  Sandy gave him a doubtful look and pulled his whip back. 

A raven tapped at the window.  

Morpheus glanced up at it and nodded.   _Yes, thank you, Matthew._ He reached under his cloak and pulling out a massive and ruby-eyed helm.   _I have other matters to which I must attend._ _I will be keeping a close eye on this child,_ he said—thought—something.   _And I will be very interested in the nightmares the child endures._

Pitch lifted his eyebrows in an unabashedly sardonic fashion and crossed his arms, watching as Morpheus disappeared.  ”And then there were two.”

Sandy frowned slightly at the spot where the stranger had been.  Above his head, a swirling vortex of crumbled gold spun rapidly.

"Hm," Pitch murmured.  "No, I’ve no idea if he actually uses sand.  I should be more than delighted to know the results of your inquiry into the subject.  Now, if I may…?"

Sandy frowned afresh at Pitch and pointed at his own eyes, and then at Pitch’s.  

Pitch cocked a hip and flicked the wrist of one of his crossed arms, underwhelmed as Sandy floated out of the window and up towards his central dream distribution cloud.

Too many cooks in the kitchen.


End file.
